


who said it wasn’t easy (you make everything so easy)

by mimosaeyes



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Banter, Casual Intimacy, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Chronological
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 11:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18475447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimosaeyes/pseuds/mimosaeyes
Summary: Callum and Rayla care about, look out for, and love each other long before either of them says it.For Rayllum Week on tumblr, prompt: “scarf”.





	who said it wasn’t easy (you make everything so easy)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Easy by Gavin James.

_iii._

 

Rayla tugs on her mare’s reins so that she draws up alongside Callum, and tilts her chin ever so slightly at the nearest member of their convoy. The lieutenant nods — a compromise after she told them all to stop bowing and saluting — and obligingly moves out of earshot.

“You’re nervous,” Rayla says quietly, just audible over the thin whistling of the wind.

Callum blinks, turning slightly in his saddle to glance at her. “You noticed.”

“Don’t worry. I’m the only one who has.”

He doesn’t question her assessment. Over the years of their friendship and work together as ambassadors, they’ve only grown more and more attuned to each other. They both take it for granted that Rayla would be the first to notice when something’s bothering him, and vice versa.

Despite knowing Callum so well, though, Rayla is still surprised by what he says next. 

“It’s a backwater village. Up in the mountains, inaccessible for half the year, cut off from changes in the rest of the world.” Callum sighs and gives a halfhearted shrug of his shoulders. “I’ll always be nervous about you going anywhere people hate you before they even meet you.”

They’ve drawn close enough that their horses’ flanks are mere inches apart. While Rayla processes what he’s just said, Callum leans over and gently brushes her hair out of her face. His fingers are warm despite the chill of the air at this altitude. They make her want, for a moment, to lean into his touch. 

As he pulls away from her, Rayla tries for a reassuring smile. “That’s sweet, Callum, but — some hick town zealot isn’t going to actually be a match for me. Or, you know, our team of elite human soldiers and elf guards.” 

She pauses and adds teasingly, “Not to mention our oh-so-powerful archmage.”

Callum rolls his eyes, which is exactly the reaction she was aiming for. But his fond smile is still a bit distracted, his brow still furrowed. 

“I know no one could lay a finger on you if they tried. But I don’t want them to even _try_.”

Rayla nods slowly. “I… think I get what you mean. Because it would look bad, wouldn’t it? For me to be attacked, for me to fight them off?” 

She still handles blades the way Runaan taught her, even though she uses the forms non-lethally. The worst thing for a peaceful ambassador’s reputation would be to remind people she used to be an assassin.

People’s tongues would wag. Even if she was only acting in self-defence, the rumours would turn her into the stereotypical vicious elf who drank blood. There would be no end to it. It could even jeopardise the upcoming peace summit, which they’ve been working toward for months.

Rayla shudders at the thought.

When too long passes without a response, she glances at Callum for confirmation. He’s already watching her, with an odd look on his face. “Uh, yes,” he says belatedly, as if lost in thought. “That’s why.”

He reaches up to unwind his scarf from around his neck. It’s the same one he’s worn for as long as she’s known him. The red is perhaps slightly less vibrant now, but the fabric has only grown softer over time.

“Here,” he says, holding his reins in one hand and reaching over toward her.

“Oh — no, I wasn’t shivering because of the cold…” Rayla begins to say. Callum pauses and raises an eyebrow at her, silently asking if he should stop. 

“Well. My ambassadorial clothes _are_ less winter-friendly than yours,” Rayla concedes. She holds still to let him wrap the scarf around her neck.

Callum tucks in the end to keep the scarf snugly in place. It’s warm, pleasantly so.

She clears her throat. “Are you done fussing?”

Callum all but beams at her as he returns his attention to the path that lies before them. “For now.”

 

_i._

 

Rayla leaps into the tree to knock out the Xadian archer, who isn’t expecting a sudden faceful of livid assassin and practically knocks himself out. 

She can’t believe she missed him in the first place. Stupid. Careless. 

Not as stupid and careless as Callum, though. What was he thinking, shoving her out of the way like that? Sure, he wasn’t hit, but his momentum made it a bad fall. She remembers hearing something distinctively go _pop_.

In one smooth movement, she jumps back to the ground and stows her blades. Callum is half-lying down, propped up on one elbow while supporting his other arm. The arm that’s currently twisted at an unnatural, stomach-turning angle. Rayla steels herself. 

“Can you sit up?” She circles around to support him from behind. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Zym peeking out at them from behind a rock. She shakes her head at the baby dragon: _no, stay there._

Pain makes Callum’s voice thready. “You missed a perfect opportunity to say, ‘Need a hand?’” he jokes weakly.

He sucks in a hissing breath through his teeth as she gingerly palpates around his shoulder, ignoring his attempt at humour.

“It’s only dislocated, not broken,” Rayla reports, relieved. “I think I can reset it.” 

Callum gives her a dubious look, although it’s slightly ruined by how shaky he is. “I hope you’re a better doctor than assassin.”

Despite everything that’s going on, that does crack her up a bit. 

“Where’s Zym?” Callum asks suddenly. “Oh, man, did they get—” 

“No. No, he’s fine. He’s over there,” Rayla reassures him.

She’s still mentally replaying those split-seconds. The sudden _fwump_ of Callum pushing her out of the way. The deadly  _thwip_ of the arrow slicing through the air. And, yes, the _pop_ of his shoulder, telling her all she needed to know before she flung herself at their assailant.

She must sound distracted, because Callum frowns at her now. “Wait, Rayla… _you’re_ okay, right?”

“Yes, just shut up!” she snaps.

Her voice breaks as she does. And suddenly she realises that there are tears in her eyes. Thanks to her outburst, Callum notices too. 

“Rayla?” he says uncertainly.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. “Stop worrying about me and Zym. You're the one who's hurt. Now, I’m going to pop your arm back in the socket. You’re going to bite on your scarf so you don’t scream, because when Runaan did this for me, I definitely wanted to. And then we’re going to get out of here before another patrol finds us.”

After a moment’s silence, Callum asks, “Do I _have_ to bite on the scarf? It'll get all gross.” His tone is almost petulant.

She stares at him. “Do you want to give away our position to their reinforcements?”

Callum winces at the thought, or perhaps at the twinge from his arm when she shifts round to his side. “Point taken.”

Begrudgingly he lets her remove his scarf, fold it into a makeshift gag, and slip it into his mouth.

“I’ll count to three,” Rayla tells him, but does it on one because she knows he’ll expect her to go on two.

And yet the first thing Callum does once it’s over and he’s removed the scarf isn’t cussing her out. Instead, he leans forward and cups her cheek with his good hand. Gently, carefully, he wipes away her tears with his thumb.

There’s a light callus on it, she realises. From how he holds his charcoal pencil when he draws by the light of their campfire.

"All better?" she murmurs. 

He nods and pulls back, slightly reluctantly. 

A beat. Then, Rayla takes the scarf from where it’s balled up on his lap, and begins tying it into a tourniquet for his arm. She takes another steadying breath. “Go easy on it for a while. A couple days. And if we can find a cold spring, that’d be good for reducing any swelling. I might know a cool poultice.”

“Any other instructions, Ray?” he says quietly, using the nickname she always wrinkles her nose at but secretly kind of enjoys. 

“Yes,” she says, finishing the knot. “ _Never_ scare me like that again.” 

 

_iv._

 

When they finally arrive in the remote village, they find what appears to be most of the town lined up to greet them. Or at least, to greet their prince, Rayla corrects herself. Although Callum made sure that they rode into the village exactly abreast of each other, as equals, the narrow street has forced him to pull slightly ahead of her. 

It takes Rayla a while to notice what exactly the villagers are staring at; at first, she thinks it’s because she’s an elf. But once she notices, she can’t un-see it.

She keeps waving and smiling her friendliest smile, but wherever she makes eye contact, she watches as their eyes take in her pointy horns and the markings on her face — everything that screams _elf_ and _outsider_ and _threat_ — and then stop at her neck. At the scarf. The scarf that bears the sign of Katolis royalty, and of the ambassador-prince’s particular favour.

As symbolic gestures go, Callum basically could not have picked a better one.

Just as she comes to this realisation, Callum turns around in his saddle to look back at her. Almost as if he knows, somehow. He catches her gaze and then, too quickly for the villagers around them to follow, signs _Are you okay?_

Rayla’s picked up a sizeable vocabulary by this point, in part by playing ‘I Spy’ in sign language with Callum when there’s nothing else to do while they’re travelling. (Most of the fun lies in making comically stern faces at each other to fool the rest of their convoy into thinking they’re discussing important ambassadorial matters.) Without missing a beat, and only a little tersely, she signs back _I’m fine_. 

But it takes its toll on her, the long day of shaking hands (often with people whose hands _are_ shaking, due to unprecedented elf proximity) and civilly ignoring any muted hostility. She’s relieved when night falls and the village chief offers to host them in his guest room.

“Just the one, I’m afraid, Prince Callum. We were not sure of the ideal arrangements for the elf — uh, that is to say…”

Callum holds up his hand to stop the man’s simpering. His tone remains cordial, but as he speaks, he slips into his authoritative, almost booming archmage voice. “You would do best to address us _both_ as Ambassadors. As to these arrangements, they will suffice.”

The man quails visibly and shows them to the room. 

Once they’re alone and the door closes behind the chief, Rayla flops onto the bed nearer to the window (hers by default, whenever the full moon is nearing). She brings her hands up to her face, rubbing at her eyes and groaning quietly. “I’m so tired.”

She hears Callum’s huff of laughter from somewhere to her left, punctuated by twin thuds as he removes his boots. “Thought you might be.”

There’s silence as he apparently hesitates for a moment, then the faint sibilance of cloth against skin. Removing his tunic, probably, before changing into the night-shirt he carries in his saddlebags. 

Is this weird? Them sharing a room, him undressing mere feet from her? No, she decides: what’s weird is that it _isn’t_ weird, how comfortable they are around each other.

As Callum readies for bed, Rayla continues to lie motionless on her bed. Except, after a minute or two, she moves the hand shielding her eyes down to his scarf, still wrapped warmly around her neck. Her fingers trace the stitches that make up the royal emblem.

She listens while Callum dips a cloth in the large basin of water they’ve been provided with for washing. He wrings out the excess water. Back to relative quiet.

Rayla exhales and tries to imagine all her tension leaving her body with the breath. She tries to enjoy this casually domestic moment, despite what she’s put up with all day.

Then, before she can stop him or even realise what he’s doing, Callum crosses the room with quick strides and dribbles water from the cloth straight onto her face. 

Spluttering, Rayla jackknifes up in bed.

Callum cackles and tries to dodge away from her, but she’s always been faster. She tackles him easily, twisting her body around his so that they land not on the floor but back on the bed.

“Shhh,” Callum teases her in a gleeful whisper. “What if the chief hears us and thinks you’ve finally decided to assassinate me?”

She gawks. “That’s not funny!” 

But he just lays there, giving her a look of utter mirth and mischief that plainly says he knows she did find it funny. He doesn’t even try to to get out from underneath her. 

Rayla stares at him in disbelief. This is ridiculous behaviour, even for him.

Then it hits her: Callum knows she’s been tense all day, being here. This is stress relief. This is play-fighting that he initiated.

Well then. 

The damp cloth has fallen to the floor in their tussle, so with a wiggle of her eyebrows, Rayla starts tickling him mercilessly.

“Not a peep,” she reminds him, as he produces a fascinating and rather unprincely series of breathless, airy giggles. “Wouldn’t want the chief bursting in and finding out I’m a tickle-assassin sleeper cell who’s just been activated.” 

Still trying to contain his laughter, Callum grabs for her hands to stop the tickling. He only really snags two fingers, but after a while longer Rayla takes pity on him and leaves a clear opening for him to catch her by the wrists.

They're both breathing a little hard by now, and suddenly Rayla realises how this would look. Her leaning over him, all but straddling his hips. Him shirtless, holding her hands and her gaze with a look of playful warning that, in the moonlight from the window, shades into something else entirely...

"Call it a stalemate?" Rayla offers, before her mind can finish that train of thought.

Callum just cocks his head at her and says, apropos of nothing, "I'm glad they only had one room."

Rayla's mind seems to short out at that. Until Callum continues, "I think we both needed this. I haven't seen you smile all day."

She frowns. "I've been nothing _but_ smiles."

"Diplomatic smiles, yes. But not a single real one." Callum releases her wrists so he has an arm free to lever himself upright. Rayla takes the opportunity to move too, bending her knee to her chest and curling up into herself.

"Speaking of diplomacy," she drawls, relishing getting to call him out on what she suspects he's done. "I figured out the scarf thing."

She can practically see him consider feigning ignorance, then dismiss the idea as unfeasible. 

"Yeah?" Gone is the archmage voice. Callum almost squeaks the word.

It's oddly satisfying to know that she has that effect on him.

"It wasn't to keep warm in the cold, not really. You just wanted to mark me out. As..." she struggles to phrase it, "protected, by the Katolis crown. As your — companion." 

Her last word sounds somehow _off_ to her, and Callum must hear it too, because he winces and asks, "Are you mad at me?"

She searches herself. 

"No," she finally answers. "I kind of feel like I should be more bothered, actually, but it was a smart idea and... it helped me. Reminded me you were right there and you had my back."

Callum's silent at that, so after a while she glances his way and finds him looking thoughtful. When he notices her attention, he pulls himself into a similar position to hers, and nudges her amiably. "Wanna know what I was really thinking?"

She raises an eyebrow at him, which he correctly takes as a sign to go on.

"I was thinking of the stories I've read about knights. If a knight was about to go on a dangerous quest, then the person they were leaving behind would give them something, as a promise to come back safely." 

That takes her by surprise, but the tradition _is_ one she's heard of. "Runaan had something like that," Rayla says softly. "A Moonstone pendant, specially made for that reason." 

Callum nods earnestly. "Yes, like that. With knights, the object was called a favour. It wasn't even always about reminding the knight of the promise. It was also about, just — knowing what they stood for. Um. That is, if that isn't taking it too far."

Rayla is suddenly glad they're sitting side by side now, instead of facing each other. She wouldn't want Callum noticing the flush on her cheeks. 

"It's fine," she says, her voice a little distant to conceal the emotion. Which breaks through anyway, warm and vulnerable: "Thank you."

She sneaks a look at him. Callum breaks out into a slow, dopey grin. Before she knows it, she's mirroring him.

The moment is spoiled only by her overwhelming urge to yawn.

Chuckling to himself, Callum swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Okay, that's my cue to let you sleep. I've provoked the wrath of irritired Rayla before. I'm not about to risk life and limb like that again." 

"Irritired?"

Callum glances back at her over his shoulder. "That's when you're so tired that you're irritated. It's the new hangry."

"No one says irritired."

He points at her. "That's exactly what someone who's irritired would say. And hey, it'll become a thing." 

Just before he stands up, Rayla finds herself reaching forward to stop him. Immediately Callum's levity evaporates, replaced by concern.

"Are you _sure_ you're okay?"

She hesitates, which makes his brow furrow further. Even quieter than before, Callum asks, "Do you... want me to stay?"

After a moment's thought, she shakes her head.

Then, to deflect: "Just wanted to see if you felt like taking my boots off for me while you're giving me tokens of protective affection. I am sooo tired."

Callum groans and practically launches himself across the room back to his bed. The motion is a cross between an exhausted stumble and a _really-Rayla?-really?_ lurch.

Rayla chuckles to herself and they resume their usual rhythms of turning in for the night. Except when she gets in one last shot, stage-whispering, "It's called a favour for a reason, Callum!"

“Do _me_ a favour and toss my pillow back if I throw it at you, okay Rayla?”

 

_ii._

 

Sneaking a worried look at Callum's pale face and the way he's holding his arm, Rayla insists on getting them a room at the next inn they pass. If he sleeps on a hard floor tonight, he’ll be in a lot worse shape tomorrow, and they still have a ways to go. 

"It's too risky to try to disguise me as an elf; they might be on the lookout. Just forget it. I'm fine sleeping in a cave," Callum says, but his weariness bleeds into his voice. Zym, who’s riding on Rayla’s shoulders for now, gives a sad chirrup. 

"Fine enough to climb in through the window, then." 

Callum pauses to give her an incredulous look.

“I meant on the ground floor, ya dummy. I’m not asking you to scale a tree and jump onto the roof." 

As it turns out, there's only one room free on the ground floor, and there's only one bed in it. Rayla can't exactly ask if they have a spare cot without explaining that she needs it for her human friend.

"I'll take the floor," Rayla says easily. "You rest that arm."

She lays down, using her arms as a pillow.

Zym lays down, using her stomach as a pillow. Eh. Sure. 

Callum just stands in the middle of the room, glancing rapidly between her on the floor, and the empty bed. "This feels wrong."

"This is my chivalric gesture, not yours," she drawls, without opening her eyes. "Get in bed." 

He doesn’t move. Finally she threatens, “Get in bed, unless you need me to tuck you in."

"Hey, look at me for a sec so I can roll my eyes at you," Callum says. But he clambers gingerly between the sheets. 

The next thing she knows, Rayla wakes up gasping for breath. The dark waters in her nightmare flee to the corners of her vision. Suddenly, she's no longer sinking into the ocean, dragged down and unable to move her cement limbs. Drowning, unable even to thrash. Immobile. Helpless to save herself, let alone the other unconscious figures around her: Runaan, her fellow assassins, even…  

Callum is saying something. Belatedly, she notices that he's sitting right by her, his legs folded underneath him, his gaze intent and urgent. 

“Rayla.” He sounds like it's not the first time he's called her name, trying to snap her out of her nightmare. 

She reaches out and numbly clutches at a handful of his jacket, as if needing to remind herself physically that he's safe.

He barely seems to notice, keeping his eyes trained on her. “Do you wanna talk about it?” 

Before he even finishes the question, she’s shaking her head no. 

“Okay, okay. You’re okay. You're okay," Callum mutters nonsensically, and pulls her into a one-armed hug, his recently injured arm held back warily.

He's warm and solid and reassuring against her. Rayla's chest is still heaving from her rapid breaths, but she begins to calm down as she focuses only on the sensation of Callum, right here with her.

"You need to breathe," Callum reminds her gently. They're so close that she feels the hum of his voice more than hears the sound of it.

Her hand is still fisted in his jacket. She unballs her fist, instead laying her palm flat against his chest.

Callum gets the idea without her needing to explain. He holds her hand in his and lets her breathe with him, feeling and mimicking each slow inhalation and exhalation. 

Finally, she calms down enough to start feeling awkward. She pulls back and clears her throat.

Callum immediately says, “You should take the bed.”

She blinks at him. “I’m fine. I can sleep on the floor.”

He doesn’t buy that for a second, but he tries a different tack. “Do it for me if not for yourself, then. So I won’t have to get out of bed again if you start having another nightmare. Just so we’re clear. This is 100% a selfish offer.” 

She doesn’t buy _that_ for a second. But she allows him to give her a hand up.

Callum removed his tourniquet-scarf earlier, and it lies crumpled atop the sheets. Rayla grabs it and lays it out flat, down the middle of the bed.

“We’ll share,” she says, as she adjusts the scarf. “That’s your side, this is my side. It’s not going to be weird.” 

It… is a bit weird. They've never had a problem with casual touches before, but in this situation Callum is suddenly wary, and lies absolutely still on his side. Rayla, too, scoots so far away from him on her side that she's practically falling off the bed.

But then she wakes again, in the early morning, to find sunlight streaming into the room. They fell asleep on their respective sides of the bed, as agreed, but in the night they have instinctively turned to face each other. Their bodies are like parentheses, or two halves of a seashell. And their fingers are almost touching, tangled together in the scarf meant to divide the space. Rayla notices, smiles, and then allows herself to drift back to sleep.

 

_v._

 

When she gestures for him to turn his back to her and holds up the scarf, Callum raises an eyebrow at her.

“Kind of kinky,” he teases.

“Hush.”

His grin becomes even more mischievous. Rayla gives him the best stern look she can summon, and he tries to school his face.

Her fingers shake slightly as she ties the scarf around his head, then comes around to tug it securely over his eyes. Callum’s hand darts up to help her, and she lightly slaps it away. “Behave,” she scolds.

“Okay, but this is only getting kinkier.” He must be waggling his eyebrows at her, because the blindfold twitches slightly. But the smile on his lips is soft, unsuspecting.

Hmm. Can he still see? She waves her hand around in front of his face. “How many fingers?”

“Ooh. Five?” 

“Idiot.” Shaking her head fondly, she grabs his hand and begins leading him. 

“Where are we going?” Callum asks conversationally. Despite his question, he’s already allowing her to lead him, completely trusting.

“And what would be the point of the blindfold if I just told you?” Rayla counters.

She’s leading him on a fairly long walk from a small village on the fringes of the human kingdoms towards Xadia. Evening falls and deepens as they leave the village outskirts, passing by the occasional local who goggles at the sight of their most powerful archmage docilely following his fellow ambassador and ex-assassin elf friend into the wilderness.

Apart from needling her with the occasional, “Are we there yet?” Callum stays silent most of the way. She warns him about uneven ground and steers him away from obstacles like bushes. They hold hands the whole way.

Finally, they arrive.

“Okay,” Rayla says, her voice quiet in the great, open expanse of land. “You can take the blindfold off."

Callum pulls the scarf down so it ends up around his neck like a bandana. As he does, he musses his hair, and she kind of wants to run her fingers through it. So she does, briefly, pretending to be neatening it.

“Hello, abductor,” he says, blinking and cocking his head at her.

What a dork.

Night has fallen, and the moon has risen. As if by tacit agreement, they tilt their heads back to gaze at the bright moon in a dark sky.

Callum gives a low whistle. “Is this what you wanted me to see?”

“Not quite.” Rayla makes a sweeping gesture with her arm at the land in front of them. “It’s the border. Or, part of what used to be the border. One of the less dramatic, death-y parts.”

She’s watching his face closely, so she sees it when his eyes widen ever so slightly. She goes on.

“Tomorrow, they’re going to start work here. It’ll be… mages and soldiers, both Xadian and human, cooling and extinguishing the river of lava. Zym will start them off. Freezing breath and all.”

Callum is nodding slowly. “They’re literally going to mend the rift.”

“Yes.” Rayla takes a deep breath. "You once told me that princes were supposed to be good at things, but you weren't good at anything."

Callum ducks his head slightly then, remembering that day, so early on in the years they've known each other. "Well apparently, I was pretty good at teenaged angsting," he jokes. 

Rayla smirks. "Was?"

"Ouch."

They laugh together, easy and familiar.

"In all seriousness, though. You've become so much more than a prince who's supposed to be good at things. You're a hell of a mage. And not bad as an ambassador co-worker, either. Just look at what you did here." She nudges him playfully.

"What _we_ did here," Callum corrects her immediately. And he sounds like it's finally sinking in for him. "Rayla, I couldn't have done any of it without you. You with your loyalty, your bravery. Your friendship."

Her throat suddenly feels tight. "Damn right," she manages to say, only it doesn't sound as cocky and light as she wants it to.

"I owe you my life," Callum continues. "Literally and metaphorically. Because you have saved me. And you have changed me. And…"

He pauses. “I love you.”

_I love you too_ , Rayla thinks immediately, instinctively. She opens her mouth and replies, “I know.”

Looking at the way Callum smiles back at her, she knows he understands what she means. And she knows how long he’s wanted to say what he means, when he does things like give her his scarf in a remote village, or brush her hair back and her tears away, or hold her until she’s steady again, until they’re both okay.

Callum takes her hand. She doesn’t hesitate, just intertwines their fingers and then stares at them.

“You know, this isn’t going to be easy.” Rayla’s tone is wry, but it cannot quite disguise her apprehension.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” A muscle in Callum’s cheek jumps as he tries to say with a straight face, “Because I can count on you.” 

Rayla uses her free hand to give him a gentle shove. “That was appalling.”

“And you’re amazing,” he replies instantly. 

A brilliant notion occurs to Rayla. A brilliant notion that will one-up Callum’s cheesiness and also show for once and for all how spectacularly smooth she is. (Competitive? Them? Please.)

“You know what you are?” she says. “You know what I’ve wanted to be able to call you for a long time?”

The corner of his lips tilts up into an indulgent smile. “I’m trying to think of another word that starts with _a_ and ends with _ing_ but your vibe is kind of—“

She shakes her head slightly and he hushes, watching her softly with half-lidded eyes.

Rayla reaches forward, hooks two fingers over his scarf, and tugs him into a kiss. Right up against his lips, she whispers, “ _Mine_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative summary: in which the author thinks up every possible use for a scarf she can and crams them into one troped-up, ultra self-indulgent fic.
> 
> More detailed process notes in my [tumblr post](http://mimosaeyes.tumblr.com/post/184203208612/who-said-it-wasnt-easy-you-make-everything-so).


End file.
